The Loud Crowd

14. The Kill

I should probably say this up here for those that don't read my rants at the bottom: my dear friend Beneaththelandslide and I are in the midst of hopefully maybe perhaps writing a crossover chapter which I am so unbelievably psyched about. You should all read her story, Promise Me The Sky, not just to get clued up but because its heartbreakingly beautiful.

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Flying to London was a blur of suitcases, tickets, trying to hide all my alcohol from Elliot and increasingly awkward tension. 

Apparently our appearance on Lavender Gilley had sent her ratings through the roof and our EP sales had also resulted in its now Platinum state. This meant that we were in Elliot's good books for once, especially me as I had discourgaed further 'Nyra' articles, but this wasn't necessarily the best thing for us. Elliot was now hovering around, wanting be 'on the scene of where the magic happened' which basically meant he wanted credit for turning out a succesful band. 

I remembered negotiating the terms of him signing with us over a year ago, and how Nate had told him that it would either work or we'd fail. I don't think any of us had expected the kind of instant success and fame that had happened. If you'd told us then that there would eventually be people getting our lyrics tattooed, sold out arenas, almost daily front page articles, a Platinum EP and free passes to Disney Land on account of our stature, we'd have laughed in your face. 

I packed for London with care, despite knowing that Aware would supply anything I forgot with a wave of a shiny black credit card. My comfy clothes, such as leggings and cotton shorts and baggy shirts went at the bottom, beneath my ordinary clothes like jeans, skirts, denim shorts and band shirts. Clothes for the concert would be travelling with Jesy, who I was having transported to London with us, as I didn't trust any other stylist. She'd been there from the beginning, she knew what I was like and didn't expect awkward chit chat. 

I had a separate case for my Doc Martens, boots, Converse and heels. I threw my make up bag into my hand luggage, with some books and my iPod and phone. Though we were only playing one night, there was a chance we might stay for a few nights, maybe a week. If we did, I planned on getting the most out of the good old English nightlife. 

When Chris banged on the door of the motel to inform me it was time to set off for the airport, I jumped. For the first time, I was nervous about returnng to my hometown. Nervous that it might bring back memories of my mum, terrified that I might get stuck again. This was unlikely, but the fear was still there. 

I lugged my suitcases out of the room and slowly dragged them out to where the bus was waiting for me. Holding my hand up against the glaring winter sun, I paused at the doors and slipped on my John Lennon look-a-like sunglasses, snorting as I realised how stereotypically diva-ish the move would have looked from the outside. 

Catching a few strands of hair that had escaped my low bun, I rewound them and pulled my suitcases forward once more. Our driver rushed forwards to help, taking the cases swiftly and hauling them into the luggage compartment behind the front wheel without breaking a sweat. 

"Thanks," I mumbled, voice hoarse from a party the night before which had involved copious amounts of alcohol and screaming along to whatever song was playing and at everyone in my vicinity. 

I made my way up the steps into the bus, inhaling the homely smell of fast food and cheap beer. Stomping in my Docs down to what had become 'my' bunk, I set my cracked leather satchel down, pulled out my iPod and shoved on the over the head earphones. They were big and chunky, and sent a tumble of shorter hairs down from my bun, but they eliminated all surrounding sounds, enabling me to hear the music and only the music.